


testimony of autumn nights

by impossibletruths



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Background Julia/Kady, Best Man Quentin, M/M, Male-Female Friendship, Meet-Cute, Weddings, Well Meet Slightly Antagonistic But Y'know
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-05
Updated: 2019-09-05
Packaged: 2020-10-10 07:57:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20524604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/impossibletruths/pseuds/impossibletruths
Summary: Eliot and Margo crash a wedding cos open bar, duh, and Eliot is inevitably and hopelessly charmed by one best man/groomsman/bridesmaid Quentin Coldwater.Or, Eliot Waugh's Foolproof Guide To Wedding-Crashing





	testimony of autumn nights

**Author's Note:**

  * For [decideophobia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/decideophobia/gifts).

> inspired by [this tweet](https://twitter.com/proofsofconcept/status/1169234902358855680) and the "I crashed the wedding and the best man won't leave me alone but oh no he's super hot" trope. how perfect that they came together thus.
> 
> unbeta'd so read at your own risk

It’s the fault of the wedding planner, actually, for holding the reception in such an easily accessible spot. It’s practically public space, really. As if a little hedge is going to keep other guests at the hotel from seeing what’s going on out on the side lawn. As if Margo and Eliot aren’t going to walk by on their way back from dinner, and Margo isn’t going to say, “Oh, I love weddings.” As if Eliot isn’t going to look at her like she’s sprouted a second head and ask, “God, why?” and then Margo will have to smirk and reply, “Open bar,” and they’ll have the same thought at the exact same time.

So really, it’s not their fault. Someone should have been prepared for that.

The reception spills down the side lawn, from the patio just outside the doors all the way down to the end of the property. Someone––multiple someones, probably––has draped string lights through the boughs of the trees, and the brush of the hedges, and everywhere else it’s possible to hang lights. Fire pits glow merrily on the patio, and down at the far end they’ve set up a stage and dance floor and ringed it with white-clothed tables. The band is covering an old jazz standard when Margo and Eliot duck through a gap in the hedge, plans for an evening spa date discarded. After all, the spa will be there in the morning. The open bar won’t.

The bar itself is about halfway down the lawn, and currently quiet. The bartender wears a perpetual grimace, but he doesn’t question either of them when they order drinks. The little menu posted on the bartop suggests wedding guests try a classic, so Eliot leans into the theme and cradles an old fashioned in one hand. Margo goes for a margarita.

“We’re on vacation,” she says when Eliot throws her a not-so-subtle look. “I’m vacationing.”

Eliot hums a noncommittal response and tucks one arm around her waist, the two of them drifting away from the bar and under the canopy of one of the light-bedecked trees. The effect is slightly lost in the last lingering light of the evening, but once the sun is fully down Eliot’s certain it will be a lovely, magical event, like weddings are supposed to be, and all that.

“Where’s the happy couple?” he murmurs, for lack of anything better to do besides drink. The invited guests are mostly still buttoned and tucked into suits and dresses, which means the party hasn’t really gotten started yet. More’s the pity; in his experience, wedding crashing always goes a little better when everyone is drunk.

“I see the bride,” Margo says, nodding down towards the dance floor where a woman in an impressive white dress sits at a table next to the dance floor, chatting with a woman in a sleek three piece suit. There’s a shockingly blonde woman sitting nearby, looking vaguely pained by the whole thing. Eliot doesn’t see the new Mr. Married.

“No groom?”

“He’s got to be around somewhere,” Margo shrugs. Eliot scans the lawn again. Most of the guests are clustered in small knots near the stage, easing out of dinner and into the night’s festivities. Eliot sips his drink, gaze drifting.

“Hmm.”

Margo looks up from her drink. “See him?”

“No,” Eliot replies, eyes fixed on the man who has just settled next to the blonde woman at the table with Mrs. Married. He’s got a pink rose pinned to his lapel and hair pulled back in a neat little bun. For a moment he wonders if it _ is _ the groom, but he sits on the far side of the table with the blonde woman, who seems to be prodding him into the conversation, so Eliot’s inclined to think no. Eliot watches his face wrinkle for a moment, then smooth out into a broad, slightly bashful smile as he shrugs, and feels a prickling curiosity creep up his spine. 

Margo scowls. “What are you staring at then?”

“Someone interesting.”

Margo follows his eyes and huffs. “Really, El? Him?”

“What? He’s cute.”

“Not that cute.”

He rolls his eyes. He’s known Margo for years; he knows when she’s lying.

She folds her arms. “Well you better hope he doesn’t come this way.”

He stops staring at small-bright-and-handsome long enough to frown down at her and the sharp red curl of her mouth. “What? Why?”

“He’s definitely the best man.”

“So?”

“_So _ we’re wedding crashing, El. Not exactly the best way to start things off.”

“You’re such a pessimist,” he tells her, but he doesn’t protest as she steers the conversation towards critiquing the fashion of the guests and the tackiness of having a wedding reception at a hotel. Even an exclusive lodge in upstate New York. It’s the principle of the thing.

And if Eliot’s eyes keep wandering back to the best man, well, he’s allowed to look isn’t he? And he's so nice to look at after all. He's animated, talking with his hands and his whole body, and he keeps grinning at the bride. Brother, maybe? They don’t look that similar, but they don’t look terrible dissimilar either. He’s known weirder families. The bride mostly looks amused about it. Blondie looks mildly uncomfortable. Suit girl is shaking her head. The groom is nowhere to be found.

Margo, treasured and supportive friend that she is, politely doesn’t mention his wandering attention. Eventually she finishes her drink and frowns at Eliot until he downs the last of his in one long, smooth gulp and the two of them wind back to the bar where things have started to pick up. The unhappy bartender is talking to another guest, an overly cheerful redhead Eliot immediately tunes out. As he waits for his drink he wonders how late into the evening it will be before he can chance accidentally bumping into the best man. Definitely a few more drinks in. Well, he has all night. It’s an open bar, after all.

They retreat into the shelter of the trees again, the sun now fully set, and the jazz band is starting to kick into something more uptempo as guests begin filtering onto the dance floor. Finally. He swirls his drink. It’s very good, actually. He’s almost impressed.

“Uh oh,” mutters Margo, interrupting her own cutting dismissal of a man in a garish argyle vest to eye something past Eliot’s shoulder. Eliot’s brow furrows.

“What?”

”Trouble. Eight o’clock. No, your eight.”

Eliot can’t twist around without being horribly obvious about it, so he tilts his head down at Margo. “Is it the fun sort of trouble?”

Margo grins, too fierce, like she’s scented blood. Eliot’s heartbeat picks up slightly, an automatic danger response honed by being Margo’s best friend for years. “You’ll be happy,” she assures him, which is as much warning as he gets before a voice rises from behind him.

“Uh, excuse me.” 

It’s the best man. He frowns at them, hands tucked deep in his pockets, bowtie slightly askew.

“Yes?” Eliot snakes an arm around Margo’s waist to present a united front, and the man hesitates a moment before forging ahead.

“I don’t think we’ve met.”

He says it like a challenge, which is definitely fair given that he and Margo are most certainly not invited to this particular, clearly very well-organized and fancy event. Eliot, who has been kicked out of more places than he’d care to count, ignores the undercurrent of _what the fuck are you doing here _ in favor of giving the man a thorough once-over, now that he’s not stealing glances across the lawn. His suit fits him nicely; he’s not quite broad in the shoulders but he fills it out well. He’s got a sharp chin and a wide mouth, currently frowning at them, and eyes that look kind behind the disapproval, eyebrows half raised in a question.

Eliot’s initial observation was right; he _ is _ cute. Cute and staring at them with his arms crossed, now, waiting with poorly-concealed wariness. Eliot starts to hold out his hand and realizes suddenly that he’s still holding his drink. He shrugs a little, charming and easy.

“Hi,” he says. “I’m Eliot. This is Margo.”

Margo, holds out a hand. “Charmed.”

The best man ignores her hand. A furrow tucks between his brows as he looks between them. “I don’t think I saw you at the ceremony.”

“We were at the back,” Eliot lies easily. Margo’s hand drops. “We’re with the bride’s party.”

The furrow deepens. He’s got an expressive face, shifting and open. It’s oddly endearing. Eliot wonders what he looks like smiling.

“Which bride?”

Oh. Ah. Mm. Well, yes, naturally. Eliot freezes.

“Kaddy,” Margo breaks in smoothly. The man’s mouth quirks. Eliot has the distinct sense they’re being laughed at.

“You’re with Kady?” He corrects the pronunciation, eyebrows climbing in disbelief and yeah, that’s definitely a thin note of amusement to go with it.

“Yes, her,” Eliot agrees, subtly prodding Margo where his hand is still wrapped around her waist. She pinches him back. “Friends from college,” he spins, and really hopes this guy isn’t about to break out the fact that they went to school together.

“College,” he echoes slowly, and he gives Eliot almost as thorough a once-over as Eliot’s giving him. He wets his lips, and some of the self-assured wryness slips away for a moment before he catches himself. Eliot bites back a smirk. “Right.”

“Is that all?” Margo breaks in. The man startles at her tone, gives them both one last frown, then abruptly turns around and heads back down the lawn. Eliot frowns at Margo. Margo frowns right back at him, eyebrows climbing.

“Really?”

“He’s cute.”

“Yeah, alright, whatever,” she allows after a moment. They both watch him bend down to speak to suit girl. That must be Kady. Mrs. Married #2. Which, really, Eliot should have clocked that one immediately. Like, she’s wearing a three piece suit. And no matter what Margo might say, this is way too tasteful for a straight couple’s wedding.

“How’d you know her name anyway?” he asks, watching the best man––or would it be bridesman? groomsman of honor? whatever––talk to Kady. Margo shrugs.

“The redhead at the bar mentioned it. Weren’t you paying attention?”

No, of course not. But he’s spared admitting that by the four sets of eyes suddenly turned on them from the wedding party. Eliot hums. “Shall we mingle?”

“Yes I think we should,” Margo agrees, and they descend into the muddle of the wedding crowd to hide.

The other bride is named Julia, they discover, and she and Kady are a lovely couple. Everyone is quite happy for them. Blondie is the maid of honor, Alice.

Julia’s best man, and also best friend from childhood, is Quentin.

“Oh, yeah, he’s great,” says the boy in the vest who has been talking at Eliot for the past ten minutes, during nine of which Eliot has been attempting to extract himself from this one-sided conversation. Margo’s abandoned him to chat up… someone; he missed the details. Vest boy, heedless of how little Eliot cares, presses on. “I mean, he and Alice put this all together, and it’s so nice, y’know? I love weddings. They always make me cry.”

“Sure,” Eliot mutters, straining to look for Margo, but he can’t find her in the eddying crowd. Dammit.

“And I mean, Julia and Kady are just––”

“Hold this for me,” Eliot interrupts, giving up on civility. He hands the kid––Ted? Tim? who cares––his empty drink. “I have to find my friend.”

“Oh,” says Tom, fumbling with the glass. “Um, sure, yeah, whatever you––”

Eliot loses the rest of whatever he’s saying in the rumble of the music and conversation, ducking between swirling knots of people, eyes peeled for Margo’s telltale red jacket.

He misses the obstacle in his path until he walks straight into them.

“Sorry,” Eliot says on autopilot, dragging his gaze down to land on–– “Oh.”

“Eliot,” says Julia’s best man.

“Quentin,” says Eliot. Quentin looks a little surprised that Eliot knows his name, and then his expression goes all tight and unhappy.

“You know, I talked to Kady,” he says as Eliot tries to edge sideways out of this conversation.

“Did you?”

“She says she doesn’t know an Eliot or a Margo from college.”

“No? Could have sworn we had introductory bio together.”

“Yeah, well, I’m pretty sure I saw you in the lounge yesterday––”

“See anything you like?” Eliot cuts in, and for a moment that shuts him up, mouth opening and closing as he tries to work out something to say. It’s hard to tell in the bleeding gold of the atmospheric lighting, but Eliot’s pretty sure he’s blushing. He grins, broad and pleased. “I’m flattered. You should have said something sooner.”

“No, that’s not what I,” says Quentin, stumbling over the words as he visibly pulls himself back together. “You’re not even with the wedding, you––”

“Now that’s just hurtful,” Eliot tells him, and then––oh thank fuck, there she is––spots Margo. “So sorry, Quentin, I’m afraid I’ve just seen my friend about to make a terrible mistake and I have to rescue her from her own hubris. This has been lovely. Give my love to Julia.” And he darts through a gap between two tables before Quentin can come up with a response.

“Bambi,” he says when he alights next to Margo, dragging her away from a man passing a blunt around. “I think perhaps this night may be drawing to a close.”

She yanks her arm out of his grasp. “What the hell, El?”

He checks nervously over his shoulder, but Quentin is nowhere to be seen. “Pretty sure I’ve got the best man on my ass.”

She looks unimpressed. “Wasn’t that the idea?”

“Margo––”

“No way,” she says, arms folding, expression going stormy. “This was your idea––”

“Okay, it wasn’t _ entirely _ my idea––”

“And I’m not leaving just because you’re cocking out.”

“I am not _ cocking out_.”

“Sure,” she drawls. He takes a breath.

“I’m only saying,” he says measuredly, “I feel our time here may be coming to a close.”

“Then we should make the most of it,” she argues, which is–– actually, pretty reasonable. She nods up at him as he unwinds. “Uh huh. Drink?”

“God, yes,” he mutters.

They just barely miss Quentin on the way back from the bar, ducking behind the tree in a fit of giggles. Margo makes a show of being irritated about it, but she’s laughing just as much as he is.

“You’re enjoying this,” she accuses him as they press against the bark of the tree waiting for him to disappear into a conversation with a handful of older people that must be relatives.

“Maybe,” he agrees, and they make a break for the bar.

They’re nearly caught again back at the tables, and only just manage to duck under the tablecloth as his eyes turn in their direction

“You’re not gonna get in his pants if you’re busy avoiding him,” Margo points out, sipping her drink through a tiny straw while Eliot watches shoes walk back and forth.

“Yes but I don’t want to get kicked out either.”

“Eliot when have you ever cared about being kicked out of somewhere.”

“Well there was the orgy in––”

“Eliot.”

He pulls a face. “I’m waiting for my moment.”

“Uh huh.”

“I mean it.”

“Mmm. You know what you need?”

“To woman up?” he hazards. She looks at him for a long moment, long enough that he’s not sure they’re joking anymore. Then she ducks out from under the table and straightens up, shaking her hair out. She holds a hand out.

“You need to dance,” she tells him, and drags him onto the dance floor.

Things have really started to come apart at the seams by now, though Eliot isn’t entirely sure how late _ now _ is. The band has moved on from jazz classics to early-aughts covers, and the millennial crowd is going absolutely wild while older guests have started to turn in for the night, admitting defeat and disappearing back towards the hotel. Margo pulls him into the thick of the dance floor and, and after a moment too long looking around he lets himself stop worrying and enjoy himself. It’s a little like being back in school, in the city––going out and getting lost in the music, the rhythm, the press of bodies, the energy of it all. He finds himself unwinding, comfortably loose, drink precariously balanced above the crowd as he and Margo dance together. 

He chances a glance up as the band finishes up one song and rolls straight into the next and finds a pair of eyes fixed on him. Quentin stands at the edge of the dance floor, just beyond the pool of light shining down from the stage. He’s lost his jacket, and his tie is loose over his shoulders, and he’s just–– watching. Something bright and trembling bursts to life in the pit of Eliot’s stomach. He catches Quentin’s gaze for a moment and smirks, and it’s hard to tell but Eliot’s pretty sure he’s blushing. Only for a moment, though; then he ducks his head and disappear into the half-dark of the lawn. Eliot bends down to Margo.

“I’ll be back.”

“What?”

He presses his lips up to her ear, unable to hear himself through the noise. “I’m making a move,” he tells her, and her head tips back as she grins at him, mouth forming words he can’t make out. But she slaps his ass and kisses his cheek, so he figures he’s got her blessing. 

He briefly catches sight of the newlyweds grinding against each other as he digs his way out of the dance floor. Ah, young love. He toasts them with the last of his drink.

It’s far cooler outside the press of bodies, autumn breeze wicking away some of the dancefloor heat. He leaves his glass on a table to follow after Quentin and finds him leaning against a tree, fairy lights strung up above him, hair half loose from its tie. Eliot stops a few feet away, music not nearly so overwhelming halfway up the lawn.

“Hi,” he says cautiously.

“Hi,” says Quentin. 

For a moment neither of them say anything. The band drifts from one song into the next. A breeze stirs the trees, sending lights drifting, casting new and interesting shadows over the both of them. Quentin’s frowning at him again with that lovely, expressive face of his. He breaks the silence first.

“I thought you might keep avoiding me.”

“I haven’t been avoiding you,” Eliot returns without thinking, even though that’s patently false, even though he’s in fact been having a lot of fun with Margo practically playing hide n go seek. He feels a little guilty about it, suddenly, which is completely unfair. It’s all just fun. They’re not doing any harm to anyone, except maybe the bartender.

But Quentin only shrugs a little, depreciating almost. “No, it’s alright. I’d be avoiding the best man too, if I were wedding crashing.”

Eliot’s halfway to protesting it, then lets it go. “It’s a very nice wedding,” he offers a little weakly, and hopes that he takes the olive branch.

“I know,” says Quentin, and there’s a smile, finally, small and wry and a little pleased too. Maybe it’s all the alcohol, or the dancing, or the general cheer of the evening, but Eliot’s stomach turns over. “I mean, it better be. After all the work we put into it.”

Eliot isn’t entirely sure what to say to that. Well, no, Eliot’s exactly sure what to say to that, but he doesn’t know if now is the time, or the place, or––

Oh fuck it. Since when does he care. “Can I buy you a drink?”

Quentin stares at him, mildly confused. “Uh. I mean, it’s an open bar.”

“Mm. Yes.” Eliot shrugs. “That was the draw, you know.”

“I sort of figured. It was either that or the cake and the cake’s gone, so.”

“What a pity,” says Eliot. And then, because his mother may have raised a fool but she didn’t raise a quitter, mostly, except usually he figures it’s better to cut his loses which is what he should be doing right now but apparently the fool is winning out because he’s asking––

“Can I tip the bartender for your drink, at least?”

For a moment he thinks he’s misjudged the situation, that this is when Quentin is very politely and firmly going to show him the door. Er, hedge. Whichever.

But then he shakes his head, smiling again. “Sure,” he agrees. “Yeah. I definitely need one.”

The bar isn’t as busy now that most of the guests have shifted down the lawn, and it looks like they’re starting to run out of a handful of things. The lime bucket is empty, for one. The bartender doesn’t much seem to mind; he’s futzing with something on his phone, and it takes him a moment to realize he’s got customers. When he looks up, he’s even more surly and unimpressed than he’s been all evening, which is pretty impressive.

“What d’you want, Q?” he mutters, not bothering to put his phone away. Quentin frowns at the drink list, the wrinkled nose of someone not interested in anything offered, then looks at the table behind the bar.

“Do we have any red left?”

The bartender grunts, which seems to be an answer, somehow. “And you?” That’s directed at Eliot.

“Whatever he’s having,” he says, and half watches the bartender as he moves around behind the bar. The rest of his attention lies on Quentin, who rolls up his shirt sleeves despite the chill breeze. He braces his forearms against the bar, then seems to decide better of it and folds his hands across his chest, then tuck them back in his pockets. Nervous energy bleeds off him, which he seems perfectly well aware of given the little grimace at the corner of his mouth. Eliot frowns.

“So you’re a wine guy?” he hazards, trying to coax him out of the shell he can practically see forming before his very eyes. It takes Quentin a moment to realize the question is directed at him.

“What? Oh, yeah.”

“It’s ‘cause he has no taste,” says the bartender as he works.

“Fuck off, Penny,” Quentin returns without any real heat. Penny hands him his drink and flips him the bird with a merry grin. Eliot’s not going to touch that one.

Or, actually, maybe he is. But he waits until they’re seated on one of benches bracketing a fire pit back at the patio, a world away from the music and dancing down by the stage.

“Your ex?”

Quentin pauses with his glass at his lips. “Hmm?”

“That guy. Penny.”

Quentin snorts into his drink and spends a minute coughing horribly, eyes watering. “God,” he hacks out, wiping his face. “Jesus, _ no _. Old roommate.”

“Mm. Sorry, just assumed, lesbian wedding––”

“Bi,” Quentin says, resting his drink on one knee. “We’re all bi here.” And there’s a depreciating little grin, and just enough weight to the _ all _ that any worry Eliot might have about mixing or misjudging signals fades away entirely.

Not that he’d been worried, of course. Not at all.

“Right. Well, we have to stick together.”

“Sure, yeah,” Quentin agrees, and takes another sip of his wine. The heat of the fire chases away the chill of the breeze and Eliot finds himself warm again. Carefully he works off his jacket, and loosens his tie, and enjoys the wind on the back of his neck. Quentin watches him, openly staring, and only looks a little guilty when caught.

“Yes?” Eliot prompts, drawling, and Quentin flushes in the firelight. He does it beautifully, though; Eliot watches entranced as the pink bleeds up to the tips of his ears. His mouth works soundlessly for a moment.

“Okay, so,” he starts, ignoring the open invitation of Eliot’s smirk, “can I ask–– If you’re not here for the wedding, what’s the occasion?”

“Maybe I _ am _ here for the wedding and there’s just been a mixup with the guest list,” Eliot offers, and Quentin rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, okay. But like, actually though.”

Eliot shrugs, lifting the wineglass. “It’s nothing exciting I promise, just a weekend trip. The wedding crashing wasn’t planned, if you’re wondering.”

“Honestly hadn’t even crossed my mind,” Quentin shrugs. “Any occasion, or…?”

Eliot hums around the rim of his glass and sets it back down. “Margo’s just been promoted so we came up for the weekend to celebrate.”

“Up from the city?”

“The very one.”

Quentin hums. “Must be nice.” He catches sight of Eliot’s expression and shrugs. “I just mean, y’know. Being able to get out for a bit. Travel. I’ve always wanted to but, y’know. Work is work.”

“Oh? What do you do?”

“Teach.”

Eliot nods slowly. He can sort of see that, maybe. Not so much the air of authority, but a certain dedication. “High school, or…?”

“Jesus, no. College.” His free hand flutters a little, like he’s searching for something to hold on to, and he fiddles with the hem of his vest. “I’m, um, an adjunct professor.”

“Oh, so he’s handsome _ and _ smart.”

His lips tilt up in a small, embarrassed smile, and his eyes flick down to his lap. Oh, he’s bashful. Eliot smiles into his drink. “I mean, it’s not that much. They’ll let anyone teach.” His expression falls a little. “Seriously. Anyone.”

“Coworker drama?”

“The department head is just, like, this absolute beast. But I mean, who doesn’t have a bad boss? It’s worth it, for the kids.”

“You sound like you don’t entirely believe that.”

“Well, whatever it takes to get out of bed, right?” The line of deprecating humor veers a little close to black irritation, and Quentin actively shakes himself out of it. “What about you? What do you do? Besides crash weddings, I mean.”

“Well, I’m also very good at bar mitzvahs. Parents love me.”

“Oh, ha ha.”

Eliot waves a hand with a pleased grin he can’t entirely wipe away and isn’t trying to. “Nothing interesting, I promise. But it pays the bills, so who am I to complain?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” shrugs Quentin. “You should do something you want to do. I mean, maybe not for a job, but like. You’ve gotta have something you’re passionate about.”

That shivery feeling in Eliot’s stomach twists again. “Do you?” he counters, trying to ease it away.

“Have something I’m passionate about? Yeah.” Quentin twists his hand together, a little self conscious. “I mean, I really do love the teaching, bad boss aside. But I’m, uh, I’m trying to write a book.”

“Oh really? Is it one of those thinly veiled autobiographies? Brilliant academics striving to make their mark on a careless world, fighting the man, entrancing all the young ladies?” Eliot remembers himself. “Or gentlemen.”

“Uh, no.” Quentin makes a face, and Eliot shrugs. He hasn’t willingly picked up a modern novel in years; what would he know. “It’s fantasy, actually. I was, um, a big children’s fantasy nut growing up and I figure I–– I don’t know. Oh, you probably don’t care. Alice tells me I go on about this way too long.”

“No,” says Eliot, and is surprised to find he means it. Quentin frowns at him. “No, it sounds interesting. Everyone I know works in finance or management, so please. I’m starved for good art.”

“Well I don’t know if I’d call it _ good_.”

Eliot waves a hand. “That’s because you’re writing it. No one who writes anything ever thinks it’s good.”

“That from experience?”

“Well,” Eliot shrugs, and he means it depreciating and easy but there’s a little too much truth to it now, like somehow Quentin’s dipped through his carefully constructed facade and they’re talking about real, honest things, which, Eliot doesn’t know how that happened but he sort of likes it, or likes watching Quentin’s beautiful, expressive face shift in the firelight. He shrugs, a little too careless. “I’ve always thought to try my hand at art criticism.”

Quentin leans forward a little, looking properly intrigued. “Oh yeah?”

“I have opinions and I have to share them. Really, you should ask Margo. She can’t get me to shut up about it.”

“Then I should be relieved to hear someone so well-cultured approves of the wedding.”

Eliot toasts him cheerfully. “Exactly! Thank you. It’s nice to be appreciated.”

“Oh, yeah, cause I’m sure no one appreciates you,” Quentin returns dryly, and Eliot grins at him. He _ likes _ this boy. Dammit.

For a moment the conversation fizzles. Eliot swirls his wine, still mostly full, and watches Quentin finish his. The music changes, and Eliot can’t make out words or rhythm, just a shift in the ambiance into something slightly slower, fuller. The fire burns low.

Quentin puts his glass down.

“Hey, um,” he says. “I don’t usually do this but, I–– uh. Is it okay if I kiss you?”

“Mhm,” hums Eliot as his pulse picks up along the soft insides of his wrists and just beneath his jaw. “That would be very okay.”

He sets his drink down carefully and turns towards Quentin, half shadow and half firelight, and stays carefully still as Quentin leans into him, a careful brush of lips, and––

And oh, Eliot was right, he is soft, soft and just a little sharp beneath it, the rough scrape of stubble against skin. His hand flutter for a moment, like he doesn't quite know what to do with them, before he rests them against Eliot’s chest. Eliot’s hand settles just behind the curve of his jaw and Quentin’s head tilts easily so Eliot can deepen the kiss. He tastes like the wine, rich and smooth and a little heady, and lets Eliot kiss him long and carefully.

Eliot hums as he pulls back, thumb stroking once against the sensitive skin just below his ear as he lets go, and his eyes slowly open. He finds Quentin staring, pupils blown wide from more than just the dark of the night. Eliot stares back, phantom sensation of Quentin’s lips still sparking against his skin. He should say something now, wry and careless and quippy, but he feels caught, something hooked deep in his chest, and he can’t conjure up the words.

Then Quentin laughs, light and huffing, and the tension of the moment bleeds away. “Wow,” he breathes. “That–– wow.”

And, well, Eliot’s never one to refute praise, even feeling half flayed like this. “I know,” he agrees, sitting back a little, poised and smirking and slightly breathless. Quentin’s still watching him with the lingering edge of that hunger, which shivers down Eliot’s spine. “You know, we could go again if you––”

What feels like miles away, something crashes, and the stage suddenly goes dark. An unsteady cry of complaint rises from the crowd, and Quentin stands abruptly. Eliot’s still touching him, he realizes, one hand settled on his wrist. It falls away now.

“Shit,” he says, staring at the stage, then down at Eliot. His lips are red and wet in the firelight. “Shit, sorry, I have to go check––”

“No, of course, it’s fine,” Eliot agrees a little numbly. Fucking _ weddings_. “I’ll be here.”

Quentin favors him with an uncertain sliver of a smile and takes off towards the stage at a steady clip. Eliot watches him go, then sinks back on the bench and determinedly finishes his wine.

And then he does something he hasn’t done since he was an undergrad. He waits.

And he waits.

And waits.

The crowd starts to bleed away slowly, people stumbling off in ones and twos. The lights don’t come back on. Eliot checks his watch––past midnight. It’s starting to feel it, drinks sitting heavy in his stomach. The fire flickers and burns low, then falls to embers, and still he sits, waiting for Quentin to come back.

Margo finds him there, running a finger along the rim of his wine glass and gazing blankly into the coals.

“El? Jesus, where have you been.”

His head comes up. He can just barely make her out in the dark. “Enjoying the night, Bambi.”

Margo slumps next to him on the bench. She’s given up on her heels; they dangle by the straps from one hand. He cups the back of her head as she lists into him.

“What happened?”

“That kid, Todd, tripped one of the breakers. The bassist fell off the stage.”

“Oh,” says Eliot.

“Yeah. Party’s over.”

“Pity,” he sighs, and makes no move to stand. She straightens to look at him, eyes black in the dimness.

“Earth to El? C’mon. Party’s over, let’s go.”

“Right,” he says, and he lets go of the wine glass. The fairy lights still twinkle through the trees, illuminating small patches of grass beneath the canopy. He can’t make out the stage; it’s all dark. Quiet. 

Quentin isn’t coming back. Of course not.

He heaves himself upright, a little less steady than he’d like to be, and tugs Margo up with him, tucking her comfortably under one arm. She leans against him without a word. This is familiar, nice. He kisses her temple.

“Did you have fun?”

“You bet your ass I did. We should do this more often.”

“Break into places?”

“Mhm.”

He smiles in the dark, but his heart isn’t quite in it. Margo tilts her head up to look at him as they enter the hotel again, lobby glaringly bright after the soft light of the lawn. Her lipstick is smudged, hair a tangle. He carefully combs some of it back into place with his fingers. She undoes his tie for him.

“What happened with the best man?” she asks as she does, little fingers working on the knot. “I though you were making your move.”

“He’s otherwise occupied,” Eliot says lightly, and accepts the narrow strip of silk when it comes loose, unbuttoning another few buttons. He feels a little gross, cooled sweat sticking shirt to skin, gritty-eyed and wine-heavy. He smiles for her anyway, if only to soothe the tilt of her brow. “But never mind that. I’m here to see my Bambi, and here you are.” He makes a face. “I need a shower.”

“I need to sleep,” she returns, wrapping one arm around his and tugging him toward the elevator. “C’mon.”

He goes without protest.

* * *

It’s noon by the time he wakes, feeling generally human again if a little cotton-tongued. He forces himself out of bed, and to check on Margo––still asleep in the adjoining room––and then dresses and clatters down the stairs to check in with the front desk.

“The wedding party checked out at eleven,” the concierge tells him when he asks. “If there’s a message you need me to pass along––”

“No, it’s fine,” Eliot says hollowly, and he goes outside to smoke.

It’s a crisp, clear day, the perfect bloom of fall. The trees planted along the long drive are a riot of color all the way down to the road at the bottom of the hill, and a straggling vee of geese call to each other as they cut through the cloudless sky. He lights a cigarette on autopilot and hoists himself up onto the low wall protecting the front gardens, the one that proclaims this to be the Brakebills House and Lodge. His feet kick idly against the cement. Smoke curls up into the air. He takes a shallow drag of the cigarette and can’t even bring himself to enjoy it.

This is embarrassing. He’s embarrassing himself. If Margo saw him out here she’d set him straight. Metaphorically speaking, of course.

He’s just. Missed his chance. That’s it. That’s all there is. Or maybe there was never a chance to begin with, and he’s just that hopeless. Maybe he can put out one of those Craigslist ads. Missed connection: We kissed at your best friend’s wedding and you stood me up. You were a great kisser, though.

Jesus. How pathetic. He takes another drag.

“Eliot?”

And chokes around it.

“Quentin?”

The best man stands next to the wall, hands dug into his jacket pockets. His hair is loose today, curling around his face in the slight breeze, and he’s peering up at Eliot like there’s a puzzle to be solved. Eliot waves a hand in front of his face, clearing the smoke and coughing.

“Hi,” says Quentin.

“Hi,” he returns, breathless. Because of the smoke. He clears his throat. “They said you left.”

Quentin shrugs sheepishly. “Yeah I just–– I mean, we checked out but I had to take care of the, um, some venue stuff, it–– It really doesn’t matter.”

“Right.”

For a moment they stare at each other.

“You were gone.”

Eliot frowns. “What?”

“When I came back, you were gone.”

“Oh.” He hadn’t… Shit. “Sorry. Margo, um.”

“No, right. I get it.”

Eliot’s still staring at him, cigarette held out in front of him like an idiot. He puts his hand down. “Uh. Wanna come up?”

“Thought you’d never ask,” Quentin says, and hoists himself gracelessly up onto the wall, folding his legs as he sits. He eyes the cigarette. “You have any more of those?”

“You can have this one,” Eliot returns, and hands it over, fingers brushing for a moment.

“Thanks,” says Quentin, and he takes a long, deep drag, blowing smoke out in a smooth stream. He makes a face as it disperses. “Julia’d kill me if she saw me. I said I’d quit.”

“I won’t tell,” Eliot promises, and Quentin smiles a little. Eliot swallows. “Um. Sorry about last night.”

“No, it’s–– I mean, I get it. I kinda disappeared on you.”

Eliot hums. “Is the bassist okay?”

“Fine, yeah. Um, sprained ankle but it’s nothing.” He takes another drag. “Jesus I hate weddings.”

“Really?”

“I mean. No. I don’t know. I definitely hate planning them, though.”

“Right, yeah.” Eliot can proudly say he’s never planned a single wedding, but he’s no stranger to hosting. Of course, he likes hosting events, the bigger the better, and is certain he would plan the fuck out of a wedding, but he’s gotten the sense that Quentin isn’t much of a crowds guy. Which is fine. “But it’s over, right?”

“It’s over,“ Quentin agrees. He looks at the cigarette in his hand and offers it out. Eliot hesitates a moment and takes it.

It’s strange to be sitting out here in the daylight. Eliot’s not really the sort to stick around with guys the day after. Maybe he’d do breakfast, if there’s morning sex involved, but sitting outside a hotel sharing a cigarette with a guy he’s kissed once, half drunk and hungry for it, is definitely not his usual _ modus operandi_.

But here he is, and not even feeling that usual itchiness he feels when strangers get clingy. There’s something easy about Quentin, comfortable. He feels unsteady with it. He doesn’t know the steps to this dance.

“Listen,” says Quentin, startling him out of his thoughts. “I had fun last night.”

“Glad to hear it,” says Eliot. He means it.

“And I’m, um, really sorry it ended uh. Early.”

Eliot’s looking at him now, sharp and uncertain, and Quentin’s staring back. He’s even lovelier now, somehow, in dark jeans and a shirt that can’t decide if it’s more grey or blue, with his feet tucked under his knees and the collar of his jacket slightly askew. Eliot itches to straighten it; he stubs out the cigarette instead.

“Me too,” he says carefully. Quentin nods along.

“Okay. Um, cool. Cause.” And he takes a deep breath. “I’m pretty you offered to buy me a drink and I’d like to take you up on that. If the offer’s still, uh, on the table.”

Eliot blinks at him, and–– smiles. Slowly, a quirk of his lips that keeps growing and growing until it creeps across the whole of his face. He feels it all the way down to his toes, a sparking surprise, the pleased sort.

“It is,” he returns. “It’s a little early, but––”

“Oh, no, I can’t–– I mean, don’t get me wrong I’d love to but my ride will be here any minute. I thought, maybe when you’re back in town.”

The joy takes a sharp left into confusion, and then does a sort of wiggly thing towards hope. Eliot blinks at him. “You live in the city?”

“I–– Yeah, didn’t I–– Jesus, I’m doing this all wrong.” Quentin uncrosses his legs and scrubs his hands across his face and looks back at Eliot, rueful. “Quentin Coldwater,” he offers, extending a hand with the name. “Hi. I teach at Columbia.”

“Eliot Waugh,” Eliot returns, taking his hand. “My credentials definitely aren’t as interesting. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Quentin.”

“My, uh, my friends call me Q.”

“Q.” Eliot rolls the letter around his tongue. It fits him nicely. “Okay. Hi.”

Q grins. Eliot wants very badly to kiss him again, and in fact he’s halfway to doing it when a car honks in the drive. Quentin jumps.

“Sorry, that’s my ride,” he says, straightening. “Let me just, um.” He pats down his pockets and comes up empty. Eliot takes pity on him.

“Let me see your phone?”

It’s easy to program his number in, and send himself a quick text. Their fingers knock together as Eliot returns the phone and neither of them pretend to be coy about it. Q glances down at his phone––specifically at the pair of emojis Eliot’s texted himself––and rolls his eyes.

“That’s really mature.”

“You should know what you’re getting into,” Eliot tells him, feeling stupidly light. Quentin shakes his head and slides off the wall, stumbling a little on the landing. Eliot reaches out a hand to steady him. Quentin grins up at him.

“Thanks.”

“Mm. Q.”

He pauses, head still tilted up, mouth a little open. “Yeah?”

“Sorry about crashing your friend’s wedding.”

Quentin’s expression goes confused for a moment, and then his eyebrows rise in that same look of challenge he’d worn last night, current of amusement running underneath. “I mean. Are you, though?”

Which. He’s got a point. “No,” Eliot shrugs, and leans all the way down to kiss him. The angle makes his neck hurt, but it’s worth it for the way Quentin’s lips part in surprise, and then he’s kissing back.

The car honks again, more loudly. Quentin pulls away first.

“Shit, sorry,” he mutters, and Eliot lets him go trotting towards the off-white Toyota. He just barely catches a glimpse of Alice behind the wheel. Quentin pauses briefly to wave at him before sliding into the passenger seat. Eliot holds a hand up in farewell, then drops it to brace behind him, cool, gritty concrete digging into his palms as he leans back. The car pulls ponderously down the drive, then takes a right onto the road and disappears around the bend. Eliot tips his head back and looks up at the clear sky. A bird wheels wide circles in the crystal blue high above.

His phone buzzes in his pocket. Eliot swipes the text open.

_ Thanks for crashing the wedding._

He’s still grinning when he saunters back through the lobby and up to their rooms, where Margo’s dragged herself out of bed and looks to be on her way to the shower, and not particularly happy about it. She scowls when she sees him.

“What?” she demands. He smiles wider. “_What?_ Jesus. It’s too early to look that happy.”

“I,” says Eliot, instead of pointing out it’s nearly one if the afternoon, because Bambi doesn’t deserve that and time is fake anyway, “have a date.”

That gives her pause. “With?”

“The best man.”

Margo frowns blearily, then shrugs, a whole body affair. “Better hope he didn’t catch the bouquet.”

“Wise as ever, Bambi,” he returns. “Spa today?”

“Yes,” she hisses gratefully, and lets him press a kiss to the top of her head as she muscles past him to the shower. He flops down on the bed and re-reads Quentin’s text as the water turns on in the bathroom.

_ Any time, _ he replies to Q, message sending with a little whoosh, and he drops his phone on the bed to get ready for a well-earned spa date with Margo.

**Author's Note:**

> you can also find me on [tumblr](http://impossibletruths.tumblr.com)


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